


Incentive

by FabulaRasa



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A friendly poker game, a little true confessions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incentive

‎"Fold."‎

‎"Me too."‎

‎"Sam?"‎

‎"Yeah, I'm out."‎

Josh gave his best cockeyed smile and rocked his chair back on its legs. "Wit and skill ‎triumph yet again. Victory is mine. Claudia, get me another beer."‎

‎"Sure thing, Joshua. Anything else I can do to serve you?"‎

‎"Nah, we'll save the naked lap dance for after my final victory."‎

Toby snorted and began raking the cards toward him.‎

‎"Snort like that again and I'll make you give me the lap dance, big boy."‎

‎"Josh, exactly how much have you had to drink?"‎

Sam smiled. "He's not that drunk. His personality's still showing through."‎

‎"Hah hah. And not so fast with the dealing, there. I haven't claimed my prize yet."‎

‎"Josh, no way am I taking off my clothes."‎

‎"Aw come on, C.J. . ."‎

‎"No."‎

‎"All right then. Next best thing. I want each of you to tell me the first time you--"‎

C.J. groaned.‎

‎"Fell in love, I was going to say, but just for that, Claudia, I'll think up something really ‎special just for you. Hey, where's my beer?"‎

‎"Josh, did you really think I was going to get you a beer? You know where the fridge is."‎

‎"Well, yeah, but, you're the hostess and everything."‎

‎"You mean, I'm the woman. Get your own beer, you sexist lush."‎

Sam stretched and yawned. "No, I think we should humor him as much as possible. ‎Drunk Josh is pretty fun, and his poker skills exist in inverse ratio to his alcohol ‎consumption."‎

Toby snorted again. "First hand he's won off me all night. I think we'll manage."‎

‎"Hey! You're not playing fair! I stated my prize! Now buck up, unless you all of a sudden ‎want to start playing for money."‎

Sam sighed. "Fine. What was it again?"‎

‎"First love. And I mean real love. I don't want to hear about the neighbor girl you kissed ‎when you were eight. I want--"‎

‎"Hot sweaty monkey love?"‎

He leered at C.J. "If applicable. But I really meant. . . you know."‎

Sam cocked his head. "You know?"‎

‎"The. . . thing. The love thing. When did you. . . you know."‎

‎"That articulacy is going to come in handy some day, my friend."‎

‎"All right, who's going first?"‎

C.J. rolled her eyes. Sam sighed. Toby began absently riffling the cards, his eyes on the ‎table.‎

‎"Fine, you bunch of pussies. I'll go, just to show you how it's done." He rose and shuffled ‎to the kitchen, pulling a beer out of the fridge and popping it open on the door handle.‎

‎"Joshua, I swear to God, you break my fridge and I'm popping the next beer in your--"‎

‎"Darlene Shapiro."‎

‎"What?"‎

‎"I said, Darlene Shapiro. My first love. She was. . . oh, man." He flipped his chair around, ‎straddled it, and swigged his beer. "Eyes like mountain lakes. Hair like a silken waterfall, ‎skin like alabaster, lips like. . . like big luscious plump things. And man, could she wear a ‎sweater."‎

‎"Darlene Shapiro," Sam said.‎

‎"Yep. Took her to the prom. We dated for a while, even, when she was in her slumming ‎phase. I think I was a plot to make her lacrosse star boyfriend jealous. Anyway. ‎Whatever. It was. . . I just never knew you could feel like that about someone, you know. ‎And we never even had sex." He took another swig off his beer and met the three pairs of ‎eyes watching him. "What?"‎

‎"You were dumped for a lacrosse player?" C.J. smirked.‎

‎"Well, to be fair, I wasn't exactly dumped, because truth be told I don't think she ever ‎really stopped dating him. She was probably two-timing him, and I was the two-timee. Or ‎something. But it was great while it lasted."‎

Sam frowned. "That is your story of your first real love? Darlene Shapiro and her ‎sweater?"‎

Josh set the beer down. "Yeah," he said softly. "Sounds ridiculous, I know. But she broke ‎my heart, actually. I thought. . . I thought she really loved me. Stupid, huh. I wrote her ‎poems. I said the most. . . well, things that I would sooner dance naked in the well of the ‎House while singing show tunes than repeat. Crazy things, the sort of things you say to a ‎girl when you're seventeen and learn to never, ever say out loud again. I thought it was ‎going to last forever, I swear to God I did. That we would get married and have three ‎kids and move to Vermont."‎

‎"Vermont?" Sam echoed.‎

‎"Show tunes?" Toby asked.‎

‎"Ignore them," C.J. said. "You should, you know. Say those things again. To someone."‎

‎"Yeah. Well," he said, watching his hands around the beer. "I'll keep that in mind next ‎time I want the heart ripped right out of my body, thanks."‎

‎"This is a dumb game," Toby said suddenly.‎

‎"It's not a game, it's what I get for winning the hand, and I say it's not dumb, and I want ‎to watch you all squirm. Just for that, you're next."‎

‎"It's dumb," Toby resumed, "like all purportedly confessional drinking games are dumb, ‎because who's to say anyone's telling the truth?"‎  
‎"Well," Josh reasoned, "what possible incentive could there be to lie? I mean, really."‎

‎"I dunno, Josh," Sam said. "I think Toby has a point. These things always backfire. I ‎wasn't going to say anything before, but before I had my sex change, my legal name was ‎Darlene Shapiro."‎

‎"You bitch."‎

‎"I know, I know. But I couldn't give up my lacrosse player. It was the size of his stick."‎

‎"Sooner or later," C.J. said with her head in the fridge, "all male humor is about penis size, ‎isn't it?" She returned with three beers and set fresh ones in front of Sam and Toby.‎

‎"Hey!" Josh protested.‎

‎"Because they didn't ask me to. Come on, I'm getting bored. Bring on the monkey love. ‎Who was next?"‎

‎"That would be Toby," Josh grinned.‎

‎"This is a dumb game," he repeated.‎

‎

* * *

He had seen her at the lawn party first.‎

It had been the sort of event he would never have attended, under ordinary ‎circumstances, but he was new on campus, and for all he knew, this is what one did in ‎California. The local customs were obscure to him. Everything felt like a foreign country, ‎or how he imagined Canada to be -- full of seemingly familiar things, and then you would ‎be brought up short by the strangeness, the slight off-ness of it, and all of a sudden your ‎legs were swaying underneath you. Like falling asleep and waking up on a boat, and you ‎have no idea how you got there.‎

‎"Come on, Toby. There's a big party at the union -- we'll meet people. Maybe even some ‎girls," his new roommate had grinned at him, thinking he was being helpful. Probably he ‎thought Toby as strange as Toby thought him, and was just nervous about being left alone ‎in the same room with him. So he had gone, because he was new, and his roommate was ‎chipper and annoying, and it was California, and this is what one did.‎

He had seen her there first. Hard not to see her, standing half a head above everyone else ‎as she did. In the center of a clump of drunken people, most of them guys, her hair loose ‎and wild and clinging to her neck, jumping up and down to some godawful band that ‎made him want to plug his ears with cotton, but there she was, twirling and laughing and ‎sloshing her beer, and God, she was like nothing he had ever seen.‎

So he had watched her, standing like an idiot, he knew, at the edge of the grass, beyond ‎the throng of drunken dancing college students and grad students, sweating in the hot ‎California September, wishing he had worn sandals because his feet were starting to melt ‎inside his socks and sturdy loafers. Wishing he owned sandals. He stationed himself by ‎the keg, thinking sooner or later it would pay off, and it did.‎

‎"Are you a cop?" was the first thing she had said to him. "Hang on," she panted, and bent ‎all the way over so her tank top hung loose and twisted her long hair tight and tucked it ‎somehow up on her head. Damp tendrils still cling to her neck. "Fill me up," was the third ‎thing she said, and stuck her cup out. He dutifully pumped the keg and squirted her cup ‎full of foam.‎

‎"I'm new," was all he could think to say.‎

‎"I'm C.J."‎

‎"Oh—that's. . ."‎

‎"My name. C.J. Claudia Jean. A name, y'know? What's yours?"‎

‎"Toby. I thought before, when you said -- that it stood for something."‎

‎"It does."‎

‎"Yeah, I know, I meant. . . sorry." And then, because the moment was slipping away, and ‎she would be gone, and he would have made a fool of himself --"you're quite the dancer."‎

She smiled then, and he was lost. "I know. Do you want to try it, or are you not allowed ‎to on duty?"‎

‎"I'm not actually a cop."‎

She laughed. "I know. You're pretty uptight there, Toby."‎

‎"Well, I'm from New York."‎

‎"Oh yeah?" she said, curiously. She sipped her beer and wiped the foam mustache off ‎with the back of her hand. "What brings you out here, sailor?"‎

‎"I'm--"‎

‎"Not actually a sailor, yeah, I know. Wait, don't tell me. Law school?"‎

‎"That bad, huh."‎

‎"Little bit. So. Berkeley Law. How come?"‎

‎"Why Berkeley, or why law school?"‎

She shrugged. "Both, I guess."‎

‎"Hey, C.J., come back!" a drunken male voice shouted, and Toby hated him.‎

‎"Yeah, yeah, just a minute," she shot over her shoulder, and turned, incredibly, back to ‎him. "I almost went to NYU, you know."‎

‎"What decided you against it?"‎

‎"It was in New York."‎

He smiled, and she grinned wider. "See, made you smile. Knew I could do it."‎

‎"Yes, it's possible that's the first time I've smiled since I've been in California."‎

‎"So if it's so bad why are you here?"‎

‎"I wanted a change."‎

‎"A change?"‎

‎"And they gave me money, and also, you know, Berkeley Law. Not bad."‎

‎"So I've heard."‎

‎"Why, are you -- do you go to law school here?"‎

She laughed. "No, I'm just a lowly undergrad."‎

‎"You're--really?"‎

‎"Yep. Communications major with a minor in public relations."‎

‎"Is that -- I don't even know what that is."‎

‎"It's 'I'm gonna make me a whole lot of money out here,' is what that is. Someone's got to; my family's full of people doing noble things for no money. You're not going ‎into anything noble, are you?"‎

‎"Nah. Politics."‎

‎"That's a relief. Half the people here are training up to be lawyers for Greenpeace, or ‎something. So, you're gonna rule the world?"‎

‎"I'm hoping to run the world for the people who rule it. I'm not really what you would ‎call electable.‎"

‎"Hard to believe, with that infectious easygoing personality you've got there. I should ‎think you'd be a shoo-in. Hey, you wanna go get something to eat?"‎

His stomach had flipped over and knotted into a tight ball of joy. He nodded. "Sure, I ‎could do that."‎

‎"Great. Let me go get Andy."‎

And so he had stood there frozen in horror, wondering if Andy was the guy who had ‎shouted at her, and how the hell he could get out of this nightmare, when she had ‎bounced back over -- really, that was the only word for it -- with a much shorter girl in ‎tow. She was pretty, in all the ways C.J. was not, and she smiled a lot.‎

‎"This is my roommate Andrea. This is Toby. He hates California and dancing and ‎communications majors, I think. Oh, and he's not a cop. Come on, let's go get Thai."‎

So he had found his roommate and dragged him along so there would be a guy for ‎Andrea, too, and they had all gone for horrible Thai food that had made him violently ill ‎later that night. But it had been worth it, because she had sat next to him and laughed too ‎loud at his jokes and called him Officer Toby and nudged him with her too-long legs on ‎her way to the bathroom, and when she had called him the next morning his stomach still ‎felt taut with joy.‎

‎"So," she said on the phone, with that half-smirk in her voice.‎

‎"So," he said.‎

‎"Is California looking better?"‎

‎"I would say definitely so."‎

‎"I know someone who had a good time last night."‎

‎"Oh yeah?" he had said, trying to match her playful tone.‎

‎"Yeah. Someone who wouldn't mind doing that again. Maybe one on one this time."‎

‎"I think. . . that could be arranged."‎

‎"Good. She really liked you, you know?"‎

A minute while he waited for the earth to resettle on its axis. "Oh. Well. Good. That's. . . ‎good news."‎

‎"I thought you might think so. Andy's pretty particular when it comes to guys. Half this ‎campus would kill for a date with her. How you did it is beyond me, but don't screw it ‎up."‎

‎"Okay."‎

‎"Gotta go. That Thai last night sucked, didn't it? I was sick all night. Were you sick?"‎

‎"Well, you were doing a fair amount of drinking there, my friend."‎

‎"Yeah. I like the sound of that."‎

‎"The drinking?"‎

‎"The friend."‎

‎"Yeah. Yeah, me too," he said, and he felt like when the F train whooshed past him on ‎the platform after racing so hard for it his lungs hurt.‎

‎"So. You think Greg would mind if I gave him a call sometime?"‎

He struggled to remember. Right, Greg the roommate. "No, I'm sure—I bet he would like ‎that."‎

‎"Good, because he's quite the little cutie."‎

‎"Yes, I couldn't agree more."‎

‎"All right, gotta go puke some more. Talk to you later?"‎

‎"Sure," he said as the receiver clicked in his ear. "Sure."‎

‎

* * *

‎"Sure," C.J. was saying. "I can remember every detail of how he looked with his shirt off, ‎but damned if I can remember his name."‎

‎"That's your story of true love?" Josh groaned.‎

‎"No, you idiot, that was my story of true infatuation. Now, the love came when--"‎

‎"Forget it, I'm bored already. You had your turn. Come on, Toby, stop zoning out over ‎there. It's your turn. Cough it up."‎

He shuffled the cards and cut them. "Lanie Watkins, 10th grade, lived across the hall, ‎wore miniskirts and tight tank tops, worked at the bodega at the corner of Brighton and ‎Avenue M, used to sneak me and my brother cigarettes, and let me kiss her at the top of ‎the 3rd floor landing where the hall light had a short in it."‎

C.J. raised her eyebrows. "Wow, Toby. That was moving in ways I can't possibly begin to ‎express."‎

‎"When I win this hand, my prize is, Josh will be forbidden to utter a word for the rest of ‎the night." He began tossing the cards, ignoring Sam's eyes on him, and their quiet ‎speculation. Like he had said to Josh, it was a dumb game. Because what possible ‎incentive could he have? And what would be the point?‎

‎"The game is deuce-to-seven, aces wild."‎  
‎ ‎


End file.
